Marshmallows
by Mitchekie
Summary: Short story based on the feature film, "The Lorax". Centers on what a day-in-the-life of the Once-ler as an older gentleman may have been, many years after the events of the decimation of the forest.


Based on Illumination Entertainment's feature film version of the Dr. Seuss book, _The Lorax_, the setting and time of this story takes place many years after the events that occurred in the Truffula forest. The Once-ler, after having completely decimated the entire forest and been abandoned by everyone (from his family to the Lorax), lives alone in his shack, whiling away the hours until someone may care enough about the trees to want to plant the last Truffula seed in his possession. This piece of fan fiction is basically my interpretation of what a day in the life of the Once-ler may have been like, namely during the time when he'd grown old.

**Marshmallows**

_The wind was modest that day, but then... it was so every day..._

Pancakes, their bodies golden-brown, tender, and slightly overcooked, sang an almost inaudible tune as they were gently pushed to and fro across a pan, complemented with an underdeveloped marshmallow or two, and occasionally — when it so suited their creator — flipped. They liked the flipping part. It provided a brief respite from the searing grip of the pan.

Footsteps. The slight clap of a cupboard door as it was pushed closed. A sigh…. The pancakes did not know that sigh, for they were new — recently born into the world, only to soon be slowly and painfully dissolved into nothingness. But the house…? The house did know that sigh, for it had grown with it, suffered with it, and slept with it for an almost uncountable number of years. The feet of the owner of that sigh had trudged and shuffled its endless path across the floor of the poor old house for so long that it was a wonder the boards were not infested with depressions from the ceaseless pacing. The eyes had bored into the walls of the house one dreary day after the next, considering it; calculating it. And the hands…. The hands were the most curious feature of all, for they had seen better days, yet still preserved within them the faintest trace of innocence. The fingers were adept, yet apprehensive; tender, yet solid. The plucking of an eye was as simple as the plucking of a grape off a branch to these hands, but such callousness did not entirely mask the presence of sensitivity….

A fresh plate, loaded down with pancakes, was carried to the center of the room… and laid upon a small, wooden table. A candle was lit, a chair was scraped, and the master of the house sat down to absorb his meal. His was the only chair at the table, for no others were needed. He was alone.

With a slight tilt of the head, and a dip of the eyebrows, the master picked up a fork on the table… and ever so slowly… dragged it through the air towards the plate of pancakes. Three inches closer... Two inches…. It seemed like an effort. One inch away…. At a mere few centimeters away from its prize, the fork was suddenly jerked back from the pancakes. The smallest of vibrations could be seen coursing through the fork… before it was carefully and gently placed back on the table. The master's stomach growled in protest, but he did not care, for what did it matter? _What did it matter…._

In an attempt to take his mind off of the hunger that bit at him, the master took to surveying the room, something he'd done countless times… but that still brought some sort of comfort to him. It was a dated little shack of a place; old and cramped, but not entirely paltry. Two stories was it comprised of, the top floor being his sleeping quarters and the bottom floor, which he was currently on, making up the living room, entryway, and kitchen. A bristly floor mat inhaled dust by the door, while a gray stove on the opposite side of the room lay thick and coated with rust. A window on the right wall overlooked a most dreary sight indeed, and a musty smell seeped through it to infect everything in the room, from some discarded nails in a hidden corner… to the only table in the center, the latter of which the master sat at. Despite its age, the walls of the house were still strong and sturdy, its floor could easily be cleared of dust and somewhat restored to its former glory in a matter of minutes, and the stove had never yet given out. But there was something depressing about it, all the same. The floor creaked with every step, threatening to collapse at any moment; the stove did not heat things up as hot as it used to, so cooking took twice — sometimes three times — as long than would be usual; and the walls — those were made of Truffula bark.

Tap. Tap. Tap. The master's soft, gloved fingers played a gentle tune upon the hard, wooden surface of the dining table. It was a monotonous tune, with no color, no purpose, and no soul. It existed out of one emotion and one emotion only: regret.

Without hesitation, the fingers suddenly ceased their repetitive dance and, in one sweeping motion, dove into the right side pocket of the master's long, earthy green coat. At first glance, one might not even know that a pocket was there - its mouth seemed to melt into the coat and no seams were visible. It wasn't long before the fingers resurfaced, bringing with them a single seed - a Truffula seed. It was rounded and wooden, with a curious design playing across its surface, and was about the size of a cherry. The fingers brought this strange seed up to the master's eye level, the better for him to observe it. Eyes creased, he turned the little unborn tree in his fingers, around and around, taking in everything from its shape... to its color... to the reality of its very existence. That harmless little seed... And to think: it was the last of its kind...

Setting the seed down upon the table, the master returned his attention to his meal, picking up the fork once more and poking it, not into the pancakes, but into a stray marshmallow that had wandered a bit to the edge of the plate. He looked at it. He plucked it off of the fork and held it in his fingers, turning it this way and that. He considered it again. Marshmallows... They were quite useless little edibles, easily crushed and good for nothing but being eaten. Their flavor was... most addicting, he had to admit, but consuming even an entire bag of them (when he could get them these days, which was rare) never satisfied his hunger. The more he turned that marshmallow in his fingers, the more he also churned up the unsettling thoughts that had lingered in his mind for days on end. Marshmallows... How very much like his character and history they were. They came in soft and hard forms; his dreams seemed appealing, yet were crushed with the chopping of a tree... and greed; swallowing every cent and bill within reach bought everything but satisfaction; an addiction towards something so seemingly important had consumed his very being, shattering past dreams into a thousand tiny shards and setting fire to naivety; and he was useless - quite useless...

It was too much to think about; too much to remember; too much to regret... He hardly noticed that he was crushing the marshmallow beneath his hand before he slammed his fist into the table. The force of the blow was such that it caused the Truffula seed to roll off onto the floor. As if his chair had suddenly shocked him into life, the master shot up from the table and frantically groped around on the floor, looking for the seed.

"No...," the master whispered anxiously to himself. "Where is it? _Where is it?"_

He was practically shaking with tension. And then... there it was, hiding behind one of the window's long, limp, moth-chewed curtains. The master breathed a grateful sigh of relief as he knelt down on his knees, scooped up the seed, dusted it off, and held it close against his chest. He closed his eyes and chuckled softly to himself, shaking his head, feeling like a fool for acting so panic-stricken. But then... that seed was the only hope he had left in the world. Losing it was unthinkable.

The wind was humble that day as it blew through the window, breathing life into the curtains and lightly ruffling the master's very bushy beard and mustache. A small sigh escaped his lips. And then... something warm kissed his face... Warmth... Slowly, ever so slowly, he opened his eyes. Some sort of light was shining through the window, brushing his cheeks and spreading its rays all across the room, exposing the dust swimming in the air and highlighting a patch of fancy, cursive, golden letters on his green coat. The master hesitated, before raising himself up from the ground... and looking out the window to the most beautiful sight he had seen in months...

The sun. Yes. It was the sun. Somehow, it had found its way through those blackened clouds constantly sailing overhead... and had poured its warmth down upon the master's house, through his window, and now... onto his face. The light breeze from outside grew just slightly in intensity, caressing his face and blowing back his hair. And for the first time in what seemed like an age, the master smiled. The seed in his hand he clutched tighter, comforted by its solidity, and for one whole minute... he savored every branch of sunlight, drinking in its rays, thankful that that little seed in his hand was not the only symbol of hope left in the world.

It was only for that one, precious minute that the sun greeted him. The last part of the master that the sun touched was the cursive golden writing on the left side of his coat: Once-ler. He shook his head, not knowing why he ever bothered to inscribe his name on that suit. It seemed like such an important thing to do at the time. How ironic it was that the most significant thing in his life ended up boiling down to something much, much smaller than himself.

"How very delicate life is, isn't it, little one?" the Once-ler said, looking now at the seed resting in the palm of his hand. "But perhaps... there is still hope. I can't see it ever getting better, unless..."

With the smallest of smiles, he pocketed the seed, and turned to look at the front door.

"I really should fix that broken doorbell," he said to himself. "One never knows..."


End file.
